


Like a Lightning Strike

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bars and Pubs, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Injuries, Protective Foggy, Protective Matt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It would be easy to blame the beers Matt's already had for his dulled reaction time, but it would also be a lie. The real trouble is the heat in Foggy’s blood; Matt’s basking in it like a housecat before a fire, and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, to enjoy anything so drenched in anger.</i>
</p><p>In which Matt gets hit on, Foggy gets protective, and a somewhat pathetic bar fight ensues. The swollen fist Foggy gets out of it doesn't feel great; Matt <i>isn't</i> great with Foggy getting hurt on his behalf.</p><p>It helps that they handle it all together.</p><p>(For a <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/7552.html?thread=15056512#cmt15056512">kinkmeme prompt</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Lightning Strike

**Author's Note:**

> So, so many thanks to Alba17, Capriccio, and Elliceluella for their help and handholding and awesomeness, and to everyone who feedbacked at the meme! <3

The sad thing is, it’s not even the first time Matt’s heard shit like, _You can’t see what you’re turning down, that’s the problem_! Sometimes it’s an attempt to shore up an ego in the rudest way possible, sometimes the speaker clearly believes every word, and sometimes it’s a mix of the two. Right now, he’s in the presence of a believer. And it’s not even the first time someone’s grabbed his hand in order to “fix” that “problem” - based on the trajectory, he’s pretty sure this guy is going for giving Matt a feel of his pecs, not his face, which is moderately hilarious. 

So far, Matt’s been all politeness - no thank you, he would not like a drink; no, not even if they went somewhere more private; no, he wouldn’t like to bypass drinks entirely in favor of a bedroom - but the guy really would’ve been better off keeping his hands to himself. The itch to let this dudebro lead him out of the bar and then let him meet Matt’s left hook is screaming to be scratched.

He's digging deep, looking for patience and coming up short, when Foggy materializes at his elbow. There are two tiny clinks as Foggy sets bottles of beer down on the bar. “Hey, man. I realize you already heard him say it, like, six times, but let me say it too. He's not interested.”

Dudebro - he'd given his name as “Xavier, call me Xave” - says, “Is that your hand? Is your hand on me right now? Are you _touching_ me?”

“Whoa, Matt, we’re in the presence of genius! - Yep, I sure am, I mean, you were touching him, so why not?”

Call-Me-Xave’s heartbeat is telling a tale that's gonna end nowhere good. And Foggy's - God, Foggy's heartbeat has stolen Matt's breath and his voice. Matt needs to say something, the _right_ thing, to stop all of this right now. But his mouth is a dry canyon, and his own heartbeat is a stampede heading straight for the cliff’s edge.

Foggy’s so _angry_ on Matt’s behalf, angry in body and in soul. For Matt it’s like touching down in a foreign country, being suddenly surrounded by a language he’s never heard before, and he gets lost for a moment, listening. One moment too long. 

There’s the sound of an open-handed slap. It's Xave’s hand meeting Foggy’s wrist as if he’s swatting a fly. Matt’s teeth grind together and his jaw clenches. He rises from his barstool, and Xave, taking “persistent asshole” to truly incredible levels, moves a step closer.

“Dude, are you kidding me right now? Are you actually kidding me?” Foggy’s got a hand on Xave’s shoulder in an instant and he’s giving him a not-particularly-light shove before Matt can do much of anything about it.

It would be easy to blame the beers Matt's already had for his dulled reaction time, but it would also be a lie. The real trouble is the heat in Foggy’s blood; Matt’s basking in it like a housecat before a fire, and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, to enjoy anything so drenched in anger.

Wouldn’t be the first time, though.

The shoving does not take them down a good road. “F - _Foggy_ ,” is all Matt has time to get out before Xave’s reciprocated by ramming Foggy's shoulder. That sends Foggy reeling back into some other dude, and Matt's pretty sure beer goes sloshing, and yeah. This is a bad road.

“Get behind the bar, Matt!” Foggy yells, panicky. There's no way that's happening. The only question is how much Matt can do here without raising suspicions. Tripping people, sure. Stumbling into them, definitely. 

One lucky punch? Two?

Better make them count.

Judicious applications of cane and elbow clear some space around Foggy, at least for a few moments. Xave's attention has been claimed by a dude grabbing his shirt and yelling that somebody owes him a motherfucking beer, but Matt figures he'll be back, and just as persistent in his determination to fuck with Foggy as he was in his pursuit of Matt.

One ear on Xave, then. The other on everyone else. 

The first guy to come barrelling in while Foggy’s back is turned goes down in one clean hit. Skin and bone feel nothing like a leather bag under Matt's fist, and he's distracted for a second by the ghost of the punch that lingers in his knuckles and the tendons in his wrist. It's been awhile. 

No incredulous heartbeats or “What the fuck”s from bystanders hit Matt's senses, so he figures he's in the clear for that one. It can stay a nice little secret between him and the guy whose face his fist just met.

Soon it becomes obvious that no one else is fighting quite so efficiently or effectively. Matt's hearing a _lot_ of those ineffectual open-handed slaps. They seem to be the weapon of choice for most of Xave's friends and fellow assholes. He's also hearing a lot of the off-kilter footsteps that indicate stumbling after being shoved, but none of the whole-body thuds that mean someone’s actually been knocked to the floor.

“Matt, _seriously_ -” Foggy's grabbed him by both elbows, and that's his panic talking, because he'd never manhandle Matt like that normally - “please, please, _please_ -”

“Who knew you were such a brawler?” Matt says, but Foggy is absolutely not on the mood for jokes. Someone knocks into Matt's shoulder and Foggy sends them reeling back like a lightning strike, two hands shoving hard against a broad chest; it's fast and sharp in a way Matt never imagined from Foggy, and Matt's torn between drinking it in and knowing that he shouldn't, that if he makes Foggy like this then there's something wrong with him.

It's -

When was the last time? When was the last time anyone looked at Matt and cared that much? That fiercely?

More than a decade ago. And there's a reason that person isn't here anymore.

Matt’s gotten distracted. Gotten his head out of the fight. The mind is the first line of defense and the first line of offense, and Matt snaps his back into action just in time to assess an incoming threat.

Xave's back. And this time, he's not going for a slap.

If the harsh way Xave’s breathing through his nostrils is any indication, his expression is probably murderous, but Matt spares little thought for it. He’s locked in on that drumming heartbeat and all the fluctuations in sound and air currents that telegraph a fist drawing back - an amateur’s move, winding up for a punch like that, and Matt's glad to hear it in play. He pushes in front of Foggy, which turns out to be exactly the wrong thing to do, because it sends Foggy’s pulse skyrocketing; Foggy side-steps Matt, and Xave does the same. He's not _quite_ enough of a piece of shit to be willing to punch his way through a blind guy, apparently, but at this point Matt really wishes he were.

A shovel hook to the ribs would deflate Xave nicely - no way he's ever been taught to breathe through one - and give him a healthy bruise to remember Matt by. Matt's burning to do it. But a deliberate stumble into the line of fire so that Xave _does_ end up clocking a blind guy is a more strategic option, one likely to sweep Matt and Foggy straight out the door on a tide of bystander outrage. Matt's halfway to making it happen, when - 

Foggy lets loose with a sound - a _snarl_ \- that Matt could never have imagined coming from his throat, and socks Xave in the face.

Outraged yelping. _So much_ outraged yelping. Xave is a dog who's just been smacked on the backside, but since Foggy doesn't have Matt's follow through, he's not out of the picture, not by a long shot.

Priority number one: get Foggy out.

Trouble is, Foggy's priorities don't match Matt's. All the two of them have in common right now are stubbornness, determination, and a willingness to get their own selves hurt. But whether the yelping attracted the right sort of attention or they were already in a bouncer’s sights, help suddenly materializes on the scene in the form of a wall of muscle. “You. With me. Door’s this way.”

“I - I - thank you -” Matt knows how to play his part. “I - my friend -” He flails wildly for Foggy’s arm. “Him too?”

“Hey!” There’s Xave, back in the game. “That shitbag hit me!”

“Uh-huh. Blind guy? Your friend hit anybody?”

“Not - not that I know of.”

“You make it home all right with him?”

“Yeah - yes. Yes.”

“Then like I said -” In the background, heavy footsteps, scuffling, one last outraged yelp from Xave; he's being manhandled by a second bouncer. “- With me.” 

Around them, the fight is ebbing. More bouncers are working the floor. As Matt and Foggy move toward the door, ripples flow through the crowd in their wake; a bit of gawking, a bit of drunk dudes hastily dropping their hands mid-slap, like kids dropping cookies they've been spotted stealing from the jar. 

Xave gets hauled out the front. Matt and Foggy get escorted out the side. When the noise of the street fills Matt's ears, squealing tires and thumping bass and blaring car horns, it's joined by the sound of Xave crying bullshit, bullshit, bullshit all the way home.

*

“College bars are full of douches and we are never drinking with douches again,” Foggy announces. It's a declaration made not just to Matt, but to the streets of New York at large. The fight may have knocked the edge off Foggy's buzz, but it doesn't seem to be gone entirely. 

Matt has a light grip on Foggy's left arm. From the odd tightness he can feel in Foggy's muscles, Matt knows Foggy's hurting. How much? He'd kept it out of his voice, but that could certainly be done with a little effort. Matt should know.

He's replaying every step of the punch: angle and trajectory, power, the shape of Foggy’s fist, trying to extrapolate the damage done, when Foggy says, “Don't make that face, dude, I don't mean we’re giving up alcohol entirely! No no no. It's just time for a change of venue. I want to drink at a place where my feet stick to the floor, and my ass sticks to the seat, and when I lean my elbows on the counter I don’t want to be able to tell where the grime of ages ends and the bar begins.” Foggy's laughing between words, trying to wrap Matt up in humor and reel him in. “I want to drink unidentifiable alcohol from unlabeled bottles, and ignore sixteen different code violations every time I walk in the door.”

 _Sounds like you're trying to distract me_. “Sounds like you've got a particular place in mind,” Matt says. He tacks on a smile.

“Maybe I do, young one. Maybe I do.” They halt at a curb, and Foggy takes several funny hitching breaths. Could be the pain in his hand, but Matt doesn't think that’s it. At least, not all of it. Words are brewing, and Foggy's not sure which ones to choose to let out.

But Matt knows what _he_ needs to say. Once they've safely crossed the street, he squeezes Foggy's elbow, and they slow to a stop. “I need to see your hand.” 

“Buddy, I hate to disappoint you, but that might be easier said than done,” Foggy says lightly, but his jaw clicks shut when Matt gently cups his wrist. “Ah,” is the last sound to escape.

Warmth. Mild swelling. Matt tilts his head and listens intently, filtering out all the late-night sounds of the city, and finds none of the creaks and groans of chips or fractures beneath Foggy’s skin; the bones of his wrist sound solid and whole. Overstretched ligaments, he thinks, but nothing worse. “Soreness? Stiffness?”

“Check and check.”

“Full range of motion?”

Foggy swallows. “It’s not a party right now, but yeah.”

“Okay,” Matt whispers, and trails his fingers down to Foggy’s knuckles. The whisper is - he can’t quite stand the sound of his own voice, not when he’s facing this. The proof of what Foggy’s done to himself for Matt.

Two puffy knuckles. Matt keeps his touch as light as can be, but Foggy still hisses. Ring finger took the impact, never good; if Foggy had hit harder, drawn power from his hips, he might’ve had a metacarpal fracture. “Extend your fingers,” Matt says quietly. Foggy hesitates, but the movement that follows is smooth enough, and he curls them in towards his palm without prompting. 

No torn tendons. Matt breathes out, lowers his hand. Lets Foggy go.

“Nothing a little ice won’t cure, right? If I forgot to fill our tray, and let’s face it, I probably did, I’ll get some from Aldo and Anthony next door. I’ll get to tell them I was in a bar fight! Because I was totally in a bar fight, Matt!”

Real cheer and forced cheer, deftly combined. Matt can't match either. Can't even get out a simple _Yeah you were, buddy_ ; the words stick in his throat, refusing to be said, refusing to be made real.

*

Aldo and Anthony are suitably impressed, based on the number of “Fuck, man, fuck!”s Matt hears through the wall. Foggy manages to skim past most of the details in telling his story, keeping Matt out of it entirely (“- this douche just comes for me, and I -”); meanwhile, Matt sits at his desk, fingers tapping against the chipped laminate top, waiting.

The door slams. “This baggie may have housed pot in a former life,” Foggy says. “I have my suspicions.”

“Mm.” It definitely had. Probably less than three hours before. Sheets rustle and ice cubes clink as Foggy sits on the edge of his bed and settles the bag against his hand. Not a second later, he's hissing and pulling it off.

“Shit, shit, cold is overrated! You know what? Pretty sure I'm going to be just fine.”

“Leave the swelling unchecked now, regret it later.” Matt gets to his feet and moves to his dresser, feeling around until he lands on the softest t-shirt he's got. Then he sits down next to Foggy, who makes an unparsable little noise as their shoulders press together. “Give it here.”

“Sadist,” Foggy grumbles, but he complies.

With Foggy’s hand cradled in his lap, Matt wraps the makeshift ice pack up in his shirt and presses it to Foggy’s knuckles. Tendrils of cold spread across Foggy’s skin, sinking down into the tissues, getting to work. The ice is off to a late start, though, it really should've been applied within the first five minutes of the injury. Matt should've dragged them into a bodega, got some, made it happen.

“I hope that asshole’s cheek is freezing off,” Foggy mutters.

Matt smiles, lips pressed together. He hopes for a good deal worse than that.

“Hey,” Foggy says softly. “Hey, I’ve been needing to say - I want you to know, I wasn’t - I didn't - okay, this is clearly a train wreck I've got going here, let me try again.” Foggy exhales. “It's not like I thought you _needed_ me to white knight my way in there tonight, okay? Please believe that. I mean, when it comes to pretty much everything but matching your socks, I know you've got it covered -” 

“Since I only buy black socks, I'd have that covered too, if someone didn't keep slipping his clothes into my loads.”

Foggy doesn't laugh. Doesn't take the bait. “But you were being so _polite_ to that douchebag, and Jesus, I got so pissed. We’re talking the full-body anger experience! Blood roaring in my ears, pulse pounding in my brain, everything going red.” 

Something’s choking Matt. He swallows it down. “I know. Ah. Yeah. I mean, I knew that, I didn't think - anger sounds - it has its own sound. Avenging angel, not white knight.”

“Foggy Nelson, Avenging Angel! I like that.”

Matt’s supposed to smile at that, so he tries to make it a good one. For Foggy. But he can’t hold it for long, so he focuses back in on Foggy’s injury. Lifting the ice pack, he rests two gentle fingertips on the back of Foggy's hand, checking to see if the swelling has begun to go down. It has: blood vessels are constricting, slowing circulation, reducing blood flow to the damaged tissues. For now, the ice is probably numbing some of the pain for Foggy, but it's going to be hard for him to type for a few days, or hold a pen, or open his horrible, horrible packages of Cheetos.

“Matt.” Foggy's breath is hitching again, stuttering in his chest. As close as they are, as quiet as the room is, it wouldn’t even take Matt’s particular senses to know that. Foggy’s got more words to let out.

“Fifteen more minutes with the ice,” Matt says.

“ _Matt_.” Here they come. “I know you didn’t like…. You had to make the disability play to get us out of there tonight, and I feel like I put you in that position. So I want to apologize.” Matt’s chin jerks, automatic. He thinks Foggy’s staring at him pretty intently. “Ah, I also feel like you want to stop talking about this, do you want to stop talking about it?”

Foggy's fingers are sturdy and strong, curled lightly against Matt’s left palm. There's a pen callus high on the middle one, and Matt wills his own fingers to stay still, to hold Foggy’s hand steady for the ice pack, not to trace its rough edges over and over. “We could talk about something else.”

“Yes! Let’s do that.” A beat goes by, but Matt just breathes, knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about it, knowing that Foggy will deliver. “So why haven’t Anthony and Aldo ever asked us to do the doobies with them?” 

“Do the doobies,” Matt snorts, and finds himself buffeted by the gentle impact of Foggy bumping his shoulder. “Hmm. What you're really asking is: which one of us do they think is a narc?”

“Oh, well, that’s easy. Me! Because spending all your waking hours in the library does not a successful narc make.”

“Foggy, you’ve got a lot to learn about libraries.”

“I’d say I’d let you teach me, but I’m afraid it would be, like, the magic words you’ve been waiting for, and I’d blink and find myself in the library right now. Trapped forever in your bookish realm.”

“Ah, but you know better than to eat in a library, we wouldn't be able to keep you,” Matt says, vaguely following along with Foggy’s faerie train of thought. Foggy says something about studying always making him hungry, but Matt's mind has begun wandering back to Foggy’s injured hand. While someone else might use the hue of Foggy’s skin - healthy pink, or danger red - to determine whether the cold of the ice pack was becoming too much, Matt can _feel_.

A definite chill registers to the touch, but they're nowhere near danger territory. Careful exploration tells him that even at the the main point of impact, Foggy's ring finger, the swelling is continuing to go down. Good. Good. Matt's pulse picks up as he replays that moment in the bar again: the sound of Foggy's fist hitting Xave's jaw. The anger shading his voice. The driving pound of his heart.

A smile pulls at Matt’s lips at the memory. He can't stop it. Matt's enjoying it all over again, even as he sits here with the damage done to Foggy held right in his hands. His stomach churns. His fingers tremble, and he balls up his left fist, squeezing until it hurts. 

“Okay. Okay, see, we tried talking about something else, but it's clearly not working. Matt. Talk to me. What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”

No. Matt angles his face down. _Beautiful_ , when Matt's head is proving just how ugly it can get. But Foggy’s breath is getting faster, heavy with worry, and it's too close, too loud, too _wrong_. Matt has to get away, or he has to make it stop.

Foggy says his name again, so, so softly, and Matt breaks.

“That pain. That pain in your hand right now. And the pain that's gonna be there tomorrow, and, and, the day after that… shouldn't be there. Shouldn't have happened to you.” Matt has to swallow before he can say the rest. “Happened because of me.”

A rustling - hair on fabric, Foggy shaking his head. “Matt, Matt, this isn't something that _happened_. It's something I _chose_. And you're -” Foggy swallows, the sound thundering in Matt's ears - “you’re making it feel better.”

Wrong. Even if that last part’s true, even _if_ , it was Matt who made the choice. Matt who let things go too far. Matt who could've shut it all down.

He must be the one shaking his head, now, because suddenly Foggy's uninjured hand is pressed warm and solid against his face. “When I choose something because of you, it's still my choice, Matt. And anything I - if I feel something because of you, even if it's a stupid swollen popsicle of a fist, I'm happy to feel it, you know that, right? You're the dick breaking the curve in all of our classes, you got that one figured out already? Right?”

“No one's happy about swollen popsicle hands, Fog.” Except Matt would be. If it was his hand, and someone had been hassling Foggy. If he'd gotten the chance to take a shot at Xave tonight.

“You don't get to tell me how I feel about popsicles, buddy.” Foggy’s hand falls away, and Matt’s cheek goes cold. “Whether you - whether you want me to feel that way or not.”

There's a tremble in Foggy's voice and an unhappy rhythm to his heart. A different kind of hurt. Still because of Matt.

He scrambles. “I don't - I - I like it when you feel things. You being angry, it, I…” He can't quite make the confession complete, say the words _I liked it, I loved it_ , but maybe Foggy hears them anyway, because his breath catches. “But you shouldn't. It's not - you shouldn't.”

A moment of quiet. “A few minutes ago, when you… when you had your hand under mine,” Foggy says carefully, as if picking his way towards a skittish animal, “that was something I liked feeling.”

Just like that, it's easy: Matt's fist uncurls and his hand slides back beneath Foggy's hurt one, holding it safe and steady. His right hand, still holding the ice pack, tingles from the cold. His left bleeds heat up into Foggy's palm. And he can feel Foggy’s heart through the thin skin of his wrist, speed doubling, tripling, like a jet headed for the end of the runway, hoping to soar -

Foggy breathes out, so slowly that it must be a deliberate attempt to steady himself. “I don't know if this is about you thinking anger’s bad for my immortal soul,” he says, “or you thinking you're not worth it or something, but how about you leave both those things up to me?”

When Matt doesn't respond - only because he managed to suppress an instinctive _no_ head-twitch - Foggy goes on, quieter, lower, “How about taking a little less responsibility for a minute, Matt. How about that. Just try it, see how it feels.”

Foggy’s voice is so soft, so gentle. There’s heat in his blood again, but it isn’t a fire this time, it’s the world’s coziest blanket, just as warm, just as tempting. Just as full of care and protection, only this time - this time he’s trying to protect Matt from himself. 

God, Matt's so weak for softness.

The noise that rises up from his throat proves it. It’s half longing and half despair, it’s that animal inside. Not so skittish, now, but not controlled: Matt’s not strong enough to follow through on everything he’s feeling, his heart wants to, his body wants to, but his mind… he lunges, buries himself in the crook of Foggy’s neck, not quite where he wants to be, but close, close. His mouth brushes skin. He breathes. 

“Hey,” Foggy whispers. His pulse races against Matt’s lips, leaving them charged and tingling. “Hey, Matt. Get up here.”

Foggy never stops being brave. 

Drawing away from Foggy's skin, even for a moment, is a cold, impossible thought, so Matt makes the journey from Foggy's tender throat up over the jut of his chin to his parted, perfect lips by dragging his own over skin every inch of the way. He brushes lightly at Foggy's mouth, shy of his welcome even though Foggy's heart and his little puffing breaths are saying _come in, come in, come in_.

Foggy takes care of him, pressing forward with a gasp that echoes deep in Matt's chest. Soon Matt loses track of everything but Foggy’s mouth, abandoned to the gentle, tidal push and pull of his lips and the warm sweep of his tongue. He comes up for air with one hand splayed over Foggy’s neck and the other on his cheek, the ice pack forgotten. Foggy’s got his uninjured hand cupped around Matt's skull, cradling it as if it's the most precious thing he's ever held, and Matt's - Matt's sparking, every cell alive.

“How’d that feel?” Foggy whispers.

“Good. Good, Foggy -” The rest of Matt’s vocabulary has deserted him. He misses Foggy’s lips already; they’re just inches away, and he can easily feel the warmth of Foggy’s breath passing in and out, but they’re still entirely too far. 

“I thought so, maybe,” Foggy says, his thumb pressing into the upturned corner of Matt's lips, making Matt helpless to do anything but smile wider. He lets his own thumb skate over Foggy's cheek and down to his mouth, tracing the bow of it, the curve that's as wide and happy as his own.

“You wanna do it again?” Foggy asks softly.

 _Yes_. But - “You had - how many beers did you have?”

“I think all the alcohol molecules in my body died the minute I saw that asshole up in your grill,” Foggy says. And then, probably clocking sourness and worry in Matt's expression, “Hey, no, I’m good, let me prove it! I’ll walk a straight line, wait, no, I’ll touch a finger to my nose. Here -” Taking Matt's hand, he tucks four of Matt’s fingers under and extends the pointer, then guides it forward until he's bopped himself on nose. “There! Now it’s your turn.” 

Matt fumbles over Foggy’s hand and pokes himself obligingly in the nose with Foggy’s finger. Then - because he'd liked it there - he drags Foggy's hand around to rest heavy on the back of his head. Somehow he has enough presence of mind to fold up his glasses and put them as far away as he can reach before the urge to feel Foggy's lips again gets too much, and he dives back in.

For a moment, everything is noise: the thunder of Matt's own heartbeat and the crash of his breath in his lungs. When he settles into the electricity buzzing through his body, Matt pushes outward, listening to Foggy, Foggy. The rasp of his thumb over Foggy’s cheek and the quiet creak of Foggy’s knuckles as his fingers tighten in Matt’s hair in return. The slide of Foggy’s bottom lip beneath Matt's and the catch in his throat when Matt gently bites down. Foggy's happy hum as Matt presses in closer and closer, and the shift of the mattress as he drops back to his elbows below Matt.

And there's the smell of him, so perfect and familiar, and so _close_ , closer than it’s ever been. Matt could lose himself in it, and he does, for a bit; meaning only to catch his breath, he comes to with his nose buried beneath the collar of Foggy's soft sweater, Foggy's heartbeat hammering in his ears.

“If. If anything’s in your way, you can get rid of it, or.” Foggy swallows. “Or not, whichever.”

While mouthing at the lowest bit of skin he can reach, the delicate stretch over Foggy’s collarbone, Matt skates his hands down Foggy’s sides. The t-shirt beneath Foggy’s sweater is untucked, which is perfect, because it makes raking them up an easy two-for-one deal, rewarding Matt’s fingertips with the warmth of Foggy’s stomach all the more quickly.

He likes _this_. Palms spread wide and low, Foggy’s stomach expanding and contracting beneath his hands. And Foggy likes it too, based on the way his breath quickens, that rise and fall growing more and more shallow under Matt’s palms. And there are other signs: the hot rush of Foggy’s blood, lower and lower. The tiny, raspy rustle of cotton as Foggy's dick plumps within his boxers. Matt's making Foggy feel good. 

There's something special about kissing the hollow of Foggy’s throat, feeling Foggy's pulse beat against his lips, while Foggy's hand weighs heavy on his head. Something really, really nice that only makes Matt sink deeper into Foggy. His right hand fumbles further down, finds the button to Foggy's jeans - 

“Oh, oh, okay -” Foggy says, his heart giving a startled leap. Matt freezes. “No, no! It’s nothing bad, I’d just - I mean, handsy kissing was obviously a go, but I’d sort of prepared myself for the idea that, you know, you might….”

“Be too Catholic for anything below the belt?” Matt punctuates this by pulling Foggy's zipper down.

“Don’t laugh at me, Matthew, I can see your rosary _from here_.”

“Eh. Sight is a distraction,” Matt says, working his hand into the slit of Foggy’s boxers to give him a nice stroke. The weight in his hand is lovely, the slight slickness that meets his fingertips at the crest of the stroke is an extra treat, and the little moan that slips from Foggy's throat is the best of all.

“Well maybe - ahh - maybe I should let my feelers do a little more looking, then,” Foggy says, suiting actions to words. He slips his hand down to the nape of Matt’s neck, skims over his shoulder and down to his chest. “Hi there,” he says, giving Matt's right pec a squeeze through his shirt, “you're nice,” causing Matt's whole body to jolt when his thumb brushes a nipple. 

Foggy makes a _very_ pleased sound at that. Matt forces himself to pull air back down into his lungs. Even with a layer of cotton between the thousands of nerve endings in his skin and the sweep of Foggy’s fingers, his brain goes into overload as Foggy strokes down to his stomach and back up to his chest. His dick’s been interested in the proceedings for quite some time, but now it’s twitching hard in his jeans, needy, eager jerks. It wants to be touched. 

Matt’s thumb presses gently at the head of Foggy’s cock. Foggy pulses between his fingers. 

And then Matt has to bite his lip, because Foggy’s hand is still moving. Only the one; his right hand, the popsicle hand, lies idle on the bed, out of commission. The next time the wide pad of Foggy’s thumb rolls over a nipple, Matt has to clutch at Foggy’s sheets, balling up a handful in his left fist; when Foggy moves low enough to trace the line of Matt's dick through his jeans, Matt’s fingers go slack on Foggy's length, and he can only breathe, mouth open and gasping against the warm skin of Foggy’s throat. 

“Help a wounded buddy out, man,” Foggy murmurs, pressing a kiss into Matt’s hair. “Crack the seal on those jeans of yours so I don’t jab anything important trying to do it leftie.”

 _Focus._ Things Matt has learned: Foggy likes firm strokes, and he likes a little action over the tip of his dick. Matt gives him both, smiling at the involuntary jerk of Foggy's hips. He seals his mouth over Foggy’s before the next stroke, tongue sliding in first, just as slowly as the drag of his fist up Foggy's cock; as he draws out, he traps Foggy's lower lip between his and _pulls_. Foggy groans, a sound that begins deep, deep down in his chest and rumbles up through his throat to escape out into the air. Matt wants to capture it, kiss that sound out of Foggy's mouth and straight down into his own chest, hear it, feel it echoing inside himself. 

Another stroke, another kiss; another - 

Foggy's hand closes around his wrist. “It’s like this. Basic dick math, Murdock. Two dicks or zero dicks. Your choice.”

Matt hears himself laugh. “Two dicks,” he says. “Yours first.”

“Nope. Sorry! Any other time, okay, maybe, but I… Look. I’m trying not to think this is about what happened tonight. You making something up to me, or something. Please, please don't let me think that, Matt.”

“Foggy -” Matt lifts his head up, trying to give Foggy a good view of his face, but the flutter of Foggy's pulse says that whatever he sees there doesn't help. “It’s not just about tonight,” Matt says, meaning it.

“Mm-hm. Caught the qualifier there, soon-to-be counselor.”

“I mean - we could’ve, I would’ve - anytime. But it’ll - make me feel good, to make you feel good.”

“Huh. Imagine that.” Foggy’s lips brush his, light and sweet. “Same here.” 

When Matt seeks out Foggy's lips again, ready for another, deeper taste, Foggy pulls back slightly, just an inch out of reach. Point made, Matt thinks, and reaches down to pop the button of his jeans, sucking in a breath when the heel of his hand rolls over his dick. As he pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to be out of the way, Matt can sense Foggy craning his neck, giving himself a good view. Matt’s dick throbs, fat and hard and happy with the attention.

Angling his hips just right, he lines himself up with Foggy. Wraps his hand around them both, bucks, swears, and hisses through his teeth. “See. See. Whenever I try to focus. You. Distract me.”

The thin, hot skin of Foggy's cock pressed against his, the blood pounding underneath, the slickness at the tip, the _weight_.

“Hey, guilty, where do I pay the fine.” Foggy’s breath hitches. “Can I just - I mean, the work’s all gonna be on you, because believe it or not, I’ve never mastered the art of jerking it left handed, but can I -”

“Okay - okay -”

Foggy takes them both in his big broad palm and squeezes, gentle and strong. Matt chokes, forehead knocking against Foggy’s shoulder, pants and tries to catch his breath. Foggy says, “Holy shit, if I do that again -”

“Don’t.” It's a growl.

“Wow, okay, shit, not going to. _Matt._ ”

Matt’s started working them both, trying to give Foggy’s dick more friction than his own, avoiding like the plague that toe-curling spot just under the head of his own dick while giving Foggy’s the kind of attention that makes him groan. And even so, he’s still gritting his teeth, left hand fisting Foggy’s sheets, back straining with the effort of keeping most of his weight off Foggy, because if he doesn’t, Jesus, if he doesn’t, he’ll collapse into Foggy’s warmth, grind his hips down and be _done_.

Foggy's thrusting up. Foggy's _going_ for it, snapping his hips, driving his dick into Matt's fist, his hardness against Matt's. His blood is pounding. _Their_ blood is pounding. He doesn't think Foggy can get much harder. He knows he can't. 

“Matt,” Foggy whispers, so gentle, and rubs a thumb over his jaw.

Matt shatters.

He lets himself fall into Foggy, lets Foggy catch all the broken pieces as he comes, body shaking, fragments of sound ripping from his chest, drowning out the world. Foggy slides his hand down Matt’s back and grips his ass, and Matt jerks, shock and aftershock, as Foggy shudders against him, clutching Matt tight as he follows him over the edge.

They breathe together, afterwards. Matching the rise and fall of his chest to Foggy’s, Matt drifts in a world made to Foggy’s rhythm, air in, air out. Foggy finally mumbles something about his sheets being a willing sacrifice and pulls fruitlessly at the corner of one until Matt takes over and cleans them with it. Then he curls closer, and Foggy does too, wrapping an arm around Matt's back.

It may be the warmest Matt’s ever felt. It spreads through him from the center out, down to where their legs are twined together, still in jeans because Matt had done a pretty half-assed job of undressing them both, up to the crook of Foggy’s neck, where Matt buries his face once again - he really, really likes it there, with Foggy’s pulse and his breath both tangible against his lips. To all the places he's pressed against Foggy, soft stomach, broad chest, every inch of him welcoming and strong.

There are still so many pieces left to Matt, sharp edges buried down in the dark. Could Foggy take them without bleeding? How many? Could he take them all?

Foggy's hand roams over Matt's back, trailing from the peak of his shoulder blade down to the crest of his ass, making the journey again and again. They’re both still wearing rucked-up shirts and sweaters, because Matt hadn't managed to get those completely off either; he rises up enough to ease Foggy’s off, careful of his hurt hand, then drags his own shirt over his head.

“ _Yesss_ ,” Foggy says, with such delight that Matt’s face heats. “Anytime, you said?”

Matt huffs a laugh into Foggy's shoulder. “Gonna have to give me a minute here, buddy.”

“No! I mean, well, _yes_ , but….”

“You mean a time that isn't tonight,” Matt says quietly. “Yeah, Foggy. Yeah.”

He can already feel it - this, them, _Foggy_ \- sinking down into his skin and his soul. More than a want - a need, a craving. A promise.

“I'm smiling,” Foggy announces, before rolling it against Matt’s cheek, corner to corner. Matt feels one stretch stupidly wide across his own face, and turns to kiss Foggy with it, nice and slow. “What about any _place_?” Foggy asks when Matt finally pulls back. “Study carrel at the library? Bathroom at the coffee shop? Top of the Empire State Building?”

“Do you -” Matt's laughing - “do you _want_ to get arrested?”

“Hey, conjugal visit sex might do it for me. You don’t know. _I_ don’t know. Maybe us barroom brawlers, we like that sort of thing.” 

Matt freezes for an instant. He can't help it. And there's no hiding it from Foggy, who rubs a warm hand along the back of his neck and says, “My choice, right?”

Yes -

Show Foggy where all the shards are buried. Give him the chance to leave for safer ground, or to slide on a pair of gloves and slowly, carefully, bring every jagged thing up to the light. 

Or heap the earth high and pack it down hard, and hope Foggy always wears shoes on his feet.

One is a false choice.

“Yeah. Yes.” Matt swallows. “But -”

“Yeah?” 

Foggy's still stroking his neck, soft, ceaseless motions of care. “Remind me?” Matt says. “Sometimes?” 

_Until I get it right._

“You got it,” Foggy says. His fingers squeeze lightly at Matt’s nape, and warmth shoots down Matt’s spine. “Till I run out of breath.”

Matt’s voice leaves him, but it doesn’t matter; he’s done with it for a while. He curls closer still, burrowing into Foggy’s warmth, pressing his ear to Foggy’s chest. He listens, and listens.

**Author's Note:**

> In my head the real summary for this is, "In which Owl works out her feelings about s2 ep10 via law school fic." xD 
> 
> Always having avocado feelings at [tumblr](http://significantowl.tumblr.com)! :)


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